Van Ordinaire

Charlie Croker: "What's the matter?"
Yellow: "He says he wants to sit up in front with the driver!"
Coco: "I always get sick in the back."
Yellow: "Listen, if I go in the back, I'll get me migraine, I'll be out like a light."
Charlie Croker: "You are not going to be sick. You are not going to have your migraine. And everybody is gonna sit in the back of the motor!"
Arthur: "Charlie, me in the back of the motor with my asthma?"

I seem to spend a considerable time not so much defending the service that I love, as correcting misapprehensions about it. F'rinstance friends and acquaintances talk about "WPCs" and I explain that we haven't had those since nineteen-eighty-something-well-before-my-time. We have "PCs" – some female, some not.

(Yes, "Life on Mars" really is another world – "A long time away in a Galaxy far, far, away" as George Lucas might have put it).

There also seems a popular misconception that the Police are laddish. W-e-l-l as a lad myself, perhaps I am not in the best position to judge BUT it doesn't seem that way to me. As previously mentioned, my boss even bears a passing resemblance to Sandra Pullman – albeit a sensitive, caring, diplomatic brunette Sandra Pullman. Boss before that was female and gay.

Laddish? No, it doesn’t seem that way to me. USUALLY.

Yesterday's Naga Chilli eating competition was possibly one exception, albeit a hilarious one.

Van crews are another. Just not so hilarious.

Self inflicted cabin fever - "banter" that is actually offputting to quite a few officers so they avoid van duty when they can, making the crews even more like minded. An aversion to getting out and walking – too cold (or too hot!), too tiring, and you have to actually make the effort to engage with strangers rather than hanging with your muckers in the van. And it screws up the psychology – the chances of leaping out of a van and dealing with someone or something right – not over reacting, not under reacting - are inevitably lower the longer you’ve been cooped up in the back..

The recent news report about the RAF Puma crash included playing the cockpit voice recording – it was very reminiscent of the worst of van culture.

But not when I'm running a van – two or three pairs out walking at any one time, but never for more than 60 minutes at a stretch. Early intervention, engage with people early on, see and be seen. Rocket science it ain't.

I didn't know much about Lord Scarman until this week. And what I did know wasn't THAT positive:

Gene Hunt: "In twenty years time, when the streets are awash with filth, and you're too frightened to leave your big, posh, Belsize Park house after dark, don't come running to me, mate! Because I'll be in Alicante. Oiled up, skin sizzling in the midday sun like a burnt sausage!"
Lord Scarman: "If you're quite finished . . ."
Gene: "No, not quite… You can despise us, you can disown us, you can even try and close us down, but you will never break us . . . because we are police officers We are brothers We are un-bloody-breakable!"

I'm with Gene on that one.

But maybe his Lordship did know a thing or two . . . .

5.50 (Page 90) PATROLLING
"A related issue to be considered is the relative balance of foot and mobile patrols. There is undoubtedly a widespread public feeling that the introduction of technological aids to policing – including the Panda car – while it has certainly enabled the police to respond more quickly to emergency calls, has had the effect of distancing the police from the public. There are no longer the opportunities, which in the early days a system of policing based exclusively on the beat patrolled by policemen on foot provided, for frequent and informal contact between the police and the public."
"Moreover, it has been suggested in the Inquiry that a more visible permanent presence of police officers in the street would be a more appropriate means of deterring crime than occasional saturation policing operations."

5.51 (Page 90) THE STATUS OF THE BEAT OFFICER
"The solution lies, I suggest, in an approach to policing in areas such as Brixton which marries the work of Home Beat and operational police officers, achieving the effective co-ordination of their activities in a single policing style based on small beats regularly patrolled by officers normally operating on foot."

5.53 (Page 91) THE SPECIAL PATROL GROUP
"It is in my view essential, given modern policing conditions, for the Metropolitan Police to have a small mobile reserve at its disposal and for this to be capable of deployment on general policing duties in any part of the Metropolitan Police District. Standards of supervision in the Group must, of course, be especially high, and a regular turn-over of officers is essential to prevent too inward-looking and self-conscious an ésprit de corps developing in the Group."

© HMSO – "THE BRIXTON DISORDERS 10-12 April 1981"
Report of an Inquiry by the Rt. Hon. The Lord Scarman, OBE. 1981.

And how come the report was complete the same year? Makes the 11 year / £200 million Bloody Sunday fiasco even more of a, well, fiasco. I’ve never been on a gravy train, but I recall being intrigued by the term as a child. Bit like sex kittens . . . . the mental image just wouldn’t come . . .

I am Touched . . . .

Stella came back from the canteen with two teas, a packet of Maltesers, and some surprising news: "You've got a fan club".

I gave her my quizzical look.

"No, really . . . . . "

As she poured boiling water over the Lapsang Souchong, a young PC had wandered over and said: "You work with 'Dave' don't you? You're really lucky!"

Since I can safely assume it is not my good looks that are key here, I am genuinely touched. And even more motivated to continue with the "always do the right thing" principle. Good timing, because I was flagging . . . .

The Vale of Fear - PART II

The rest of our journey passed in silence. Holmes sat back with his eyes half closed, so obviously in deep contemplation of the facts that I felt loathe to interrupt him with the questions that would only bring attention to the fore my ignorance of their meaning. Eventually I could restrain myself no longer but, just as I opened my mouth to speak, Holmes' eyes flicked open and he stood.

At that moment I felt the train slowing.

"Edenmount Station," remarked Holmes, "exactly on schedule".

"Edenmount?" I queried. "I thought you said our destination was Ardenvale?"

"Quite so, Watson, but a brief study of any Bradshaw’s will show you that Ardenvale is no longer connected to the railway, but lies a mere five miles to the northeast of this, our intermediate destination."

Alighting at the small station of Edenmount, I was able to without delay attract the attention of a Hackney Carriage. Its driver seemed pleased to welcome the fare, but he viewed us with obvious suspicion when I told him of our destination . . . . eventually I succeeded in persuading the fellow to transport us to Ardenvale, but only by making the payment in advance.

The manner and extraordinary behaviour of the Hackneyman convinced me that my old friend was right, and something was very wrong on the Ardenvale Estate. My hypothesis was confirmed some fifteen minutes later when we alighted from the cab, its driver retiring from the scene with what I thought to be undue haste.

I had hitherto believed that my service in Afghanistan and my misfortunes there had inured me to hardship and inhospitable conditions, but I must confess to being unnerved by the despoiled and menacing surroundings of Ardenvale. Before us lay a small terrace of shops, or rather I should say the derelict, boarded and unhappy carcasses of what had once been shops. In the centre of row of dull blackened teeth just two squares of bright metal stood out – the metal grills of the two remaining shops that still traded. I could make out that one was a purveyor of Oriental meals for consumption at home, whilst the other's red and green shop front proclaimed itself a "Convenience Store".

"Come Watson," announced Holmes striding out towards the two stores with the purposeful gait he displayed when on the trail of mischief, "To uncover what harm distresses this community we must go to its heart".

"But Holmes, my dear fellow!" I protested in some alarm "have care of your safety!" I gestured towards a group of hooded figures that lounged in front of the shops, barring our way. As we approached closer I could make them out to be young roughs of the worst sort.

"Watson" said Holmes patiently, "You never shirked your duty on the Afghan plains – similarly, we must not shirk ours now, so much closer to home."

"And besides," he added with a smile, "You are aware from the adventures we have shared that I have some proficiency in the noble British sport of pugilism."


TO BE CONTINUED . . .

PC Gone Mad . . . .

Devon, I'm in Devon!

Basil: "May I ask what you expected to see out of a Torquay hotel bedroom window? Sydney Opera House, perhaps? The Hanging Gardens of Babylon? Herds of wildebeest sweeping majestically...?"

Mrs. Richards: "Don't be silly. I expect to be able to see the sea."

Basil: "You can see the sea. It's over there between the land and the sky."


South Devon. And jolly nice it is. Loved one is looking very pregnant, especially as we are only 21 weeks in, we are both tired, so snatching a short break in Torquay. First time, and we are impressed.

Last night of duty wasn't a bundle of laughs. Division was stretched by a rape and a DV stabbing, both requiring cordons and lots of blue crime scene tape. And I ended up at the local hospital – no, not for me (although my right hand still hurts a bit from the fail-to-stop Peugeot, but as that is an ongoing case . . . I will just float the advice that if you are thinking of body checking a small family hatchback travelling at 40mph – DON’T), but for the suicidal asylum deportee.

There is a busy port in our area, which of course means immigration and asylum issues, but specialist units and the UK Border Agency seem to hoover up the vast majority of incidents between them.

Most but not all . . . . so there I was in A&E, keeping a beady eye on a 20-something guy being deported back to the Continent, whence he had arrived several hours earlier. But in order to prevent / delay deportation he had smashed a glass and started chewing on the pieces. So there we were in A&E whilst doctors who looked even more youthful than some of our freshfaced shiny new PCs worked out whether he had actually swallowed any.

There is one thing the Police service loves, and it is possibly not therefore a complete coincidence that it is also something that it is very good at, and that is cordons and blue tape. As previously remarked, I joined for the car chases, shootouts, locker room confrontations, Three Litre Ford Consul GTs and sex with air hostesses, as personally promised me by Jack Regan and George Carter. But that makes me unusual. Most recruits to the service are, according to my trained observations, attracted by the thrills of threading miles of blue tape around crime scenes faster than you can say 'CSI'.

Had I chosen a medical career it would have been for the studied nonchalance of a stethoscope draped neck, bow ties, and cute nurses, as personally promised by Doctor Tinkle and Nurse Sandra May. But THAT would have made me unusual. Most recruits to the NHS are, according to my trained observations, attracted by the thrills of cutting off peoples’ clothes faster than you can say gastro-intestinal tract, let alone spell it.

And so it came to pass that it was determined that the suicidal asylum deportee had not actually ingested any glass and could safely be sent packing (if 'sent packing' as a term can be applied to those with nothing to pack except the clothes on their back which have just been sliced 'n diced). So back to Custody and a set of shapeless blue issue trackies and polo shirt (the white paper suits to interview suspects in once their clothes have been seized for forensics, so beloved by "Prime Suspect", etc, are not used now as they are 'demeaning' and might induce someone to confess wrongly!) to be deported in. I wasn't entirely comfortable with this, so at the end of my shift I popped home and got some stuff that I was going to take to a charity shop anyway, and ran it down to Custody. Detention Officer (think Catherine Zeta-Jones's attractive sister) was quite touched.

Anyway, Devon now, so I can unwind.

Although the bus stops keep making me think about work. Simple idea but effective . . . locally targeted messages from Devon & Cornwall Police – what the local priorities are and what they have done about them, with specific details –

YOU SAID that anti-social driving and speeding was a concern in your community . . . WE TOOK ACTION and as part of a targeted road safety operation in June/July we
made 34 arrests for drink driving
issued 32 vehicle defect rectification notices
issued 162 Fixed penalty notices.

But enough of work – we are here to have a good time for our sakes and for our baby's. And I have "The Vale of Fear - PART II" to work on . . .

"Alighting at the small station of Edenmount, I was able to without delay attract the attention of a Hackney Carriage. Its driver, however, was less enthusiastic when I told him of our destination – the Ardenvale Estate . . . . " TO BE CONTINUED . . .

The Vale of Fear, Part I

It was the endless summer of ’09 and all of England was dismayed by a series of events that would pose Sherlock Holmes his sternest challenge ever. The adventure started one lunchtime when I was startled by a sudden exclamation from my friend, who had spent the morning quietly absorbed with newspapers scattered across the comfortable rug of our lodgings at 221B Baker Street.

"Come Watson," cried Holmes, "Pack your valise, the game’s afoot!"

Delighted as I was by my friend's sudden animation dispersing his recent torpor, I was nonetheless taken aback.

"But where are we going my dear Holmes?" I stammered.

Holmes pointed to the scatter of the latest editions of the daily newspapers across the rug. "Why to the Ardenvale Estate, Watson, of course. On the two fifteen from Paddington Station."

And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the corner of a First Great Western carriage, leaving London behind as we raced through the peaceful English countryside at forty-three miles an hour. Holmes settled back in his seat and turned a quizzical eye at me.

"So, Watson, what do you know of the mysterious affair on the Ardenvale Estate?"

"The ancestral home of the Earls of Ardenvale, one of England's noblest families, Holmes?" I replied.

I saw on Holmes' strong features that rarest of his emotions, agitation.

"Watson, I pray" he cried, "If you paid more attention to studying crime and less to embellishing the true application of method into fanciful romance you would know that I refer not to the noble Earl, but to grave tidings from the Ardenvale Estate of Housing."

My friend deftly flicked a brown manila folder into my lap.

"Read on, Watson, and tell me what you deduce from the facts as laid before you." With that my friend sat back, placed his fingers together as if in prayer, and shut his eyes as if in deep contemplation.

I turned my attention to the folder which contained a number of newspaper cuttings.

Eventually Holmes broke the silence: "And what do you make of these events?"

"I confess, very little" I replied, "The cuttings are from more than one edition of a local newspaper."

I saw Holmes nod approvingly, which encouraged me to continue. "They all relate to events in the same area, around a small shop, possibly a grocer's or general store. As to the events themselves, my dear Holmes, I confess I can make neither head nor tail. Mysterious hooded figures, small piles of broken glass, a dead cat, poorly spelled and ungrammatical messages in paint upon walls . . . . surely this is a strange practical joke, or the work of a madman?"

"No indeed Watson!"

My friend's sudden passion and the flash of his dark eyes quite unnerved me, used as I was to his moods. Holmes observed my confusion and softened his tone.

"But I wish you were right, my dear Watson. Look, look again at the sequence of seemingly random events – the hooded figures, the shattered empty alcoholic beverage containers, the slaughtered Felis catus all point to the presence of a monstrous evil at work. I only hope we are in time to avert tragedy Watson."

"Monstrous evil?" I was dumbfounded. "A tragedy to avert?"

"Indeed so, old friend, and if you need confirmation I draw your attention to the curious incident of the Police in the night-time".

I examined the cuttings again.

"The Police did nothing in the night-time".

"That was the curious incident", remarked Sherlock Holmes.


TO BE CONTINUED . . .

It’s That Time Again . . .

Mal: "This is the captain. We have a...little problem with our engine sequence, so we may experience some slight turbulence and then...explode."


. . . . so here’s some fireworks law . . .

TIMES

Regulation 7 Fireworks Regulations 2004:

It is an offence to use a firework after 11pm EXCEPT:
Between 11pm on the first day of the Chinese Year and 1am the following day; or:
Between 11pm on 5th November and ending at at 12am the following day; or:
Between 11pm on the day of Diwali and 1am the following day; or:
Between 11pm on 31st December and ending at at 1am the following day; or:
As part of a display provided by a Local Authority for their own purposes or for a national public celebration or commemorative event.


AGES

Regulation 6 of the Fireworks (Safety) Regulations 1997: "no person shall supply any firework or any assembly to any person apparently under the age of eighteen years" (except for caps, cracker snaps, novelty matches, party poppers, serpents or throwdowns).

Regulation 4 of the Fireworks Act 2004: " . . . no person under the age of eighteen years shall possess an adult firework in a public place."
(excludes under 18s employed in a professional capacity at a display).


PUBLIC PLACES

Section 80 of the Explosives Act 1875:

It is an offence for any person to throw or cast any firework in or onto any highway, street, thoroughfare or public place

A Smith & Wesson of a Service?

"Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way when you criticize them, you are a mile away from them and you have their shoes."

I'm normally a 'Guardian' reader (does it show?), albeit the online version, what with me being a humbly paid public servant with a baby on the way. £5 a week for a paper paper is £5 a week, although I do miss a proper newspaper barrier between boot bulling and dining table. But I know what I've been missing now . . . . Libby Purves, in 'The Times' on the suicide in Leicestershire of Fiona Pilkington and her daughter, a subject I keep returning to. I keep returning to it both because it is such an appalling wake-up call, and because I believe it will be pivotal:

Most enragingly, the acting chief constable explained that today, given the girl's disability, such a persecution would be classified as "hate crime" and treated seriously. How dare he hide behind this political novelty? You shouldn't have to be black, Muslim, gay or disabled to expect protection from vandalism, threat and mockery. You shouldn't need to be a "minority" to get a response from the police. No citizen of a heavily taxed and regulated country should meet shrugs and accusations of "over-reacting" when they daren't step out of their front door.*

Go Libby, go . . .

The finest handgun, let alone revolver, I have ever handled was a Ruger Security Six, .357 Magnum. Compact, ergonomic, effective and – most importantly in the context of handguns – RELIABLE. I cannot find the quote but – unless I am hallucinating again – I am sure I once read a comparison of the outputs of Sturm, Ruger & Co and their rival Smith & Wesson, with the former summarised as the "triumph of engineering over craftsmanship" and the latter a "triumph of craftsmanship over engineering".

I sometimes think the Police service is more like the latter – not actually designed for success but scraping by due to the quality of the components (us). Forces are too small and yet over-centralised. Too small to do everything they need to without strain – for example, I guestimate we probably need about four-seventeenths of a helicopter (or even better, two-seventeenths of two), not a whole one. And by the time we have staffed all the specialist units no wonder there’s nobody left to go to the ASB call that has traditionally been unprioritised to the bottom of the pile.

Over centralised in that CID, Roads Policing, Special Branch, etc, have withdrawn from local stations back to the centre and are now no longer available for a 'quick question' to those on the learning curve (which is all of us!). Easy for me – I spend a lot of time at HQ and know which are the right doors to stick my head round and ask "How do I . . . . . ?" – but that is a course of action now closed to a whole generation of SNT and Response officers.

And a service as a whole bent and beaten to meet government targets.

Relying, by design or (rather more likely) accident, on the quality of the components does also inevitably mean that when the component fails there is nothing systematic in place to ensure the mechanism still works. So when officers do not want to go to 'griefy' ASB ("show me committed with paperwork") they don't.

Strangely enough, yesterday I didn't get a single ASB call – lull before the Halloween storm? Two double crewed units out (I know, I know, we're not supposed to double crew in the daytime, but 50% of the four of us were very new and shiny . . . ). Life can be unfair, especially mornings: Timbo (ex Sapper, good guy) and his shiny newbie were right place/right time to get the lorry-stuck-under-low-bridge (always fun, especially when you know the magic trick), whilst we got they young-man-cutting-his-wrists-in-a-Gilbert-Scott-K3-phone-box. No justice. At least the cuts weren't too deep ("I just needed to check the blood would flow and that I wasn't dead") and we had the bleeding stopped even before the ambulance arrived.

The police, of course, get close to nightmare every day, and nobody is saying that their job is easy. However, we know from a hundred awful stories that ASBOs are mocked, cruel children know their rights all too well, and police can't cope.*

(Actually, "can’t cope" I can just about live with . . . WON'T COPE, well, don’t get me started).


But the good news is . . . . 20 week scan looked good, and it's a boy!

Although boys' names are harder – mmmmmm Dexter? Ludovic? Jenson? Mal? Book? Wash? Jayne (OK, maybe not). Simon? Smith? Wesson? Gilbert Scott? Or something Danish, since if the dates are right that's where our little miracle happened . . . . Hamlet?


* © Libby Purves, ‘The Times’ Monday September 2009 – "If we can't have more police, have less tolerance".